


Before the City Fell

by missvalerietanner



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: 1998, Conspiracy, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, Mystery, Nostalgia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, S.T.A.R.S., Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2020-10-06 01:42:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20498810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missvalerietanner/pseuds/missvalerietanner
Summary: We weren’t meant to return.But we did.Three weeks have passed since the Mansion Incident. The S.T.A.R.S. team has disbanded. The city sees the whole team as a joke, a group of loons, or worse —a group of killers. Barry and Rebecca fled the city. Brad went into hiding. Chris never leaves his apartment. And Jill tries to cling to whatever normal life still exists.Told through the eyes of Jill Valentine, this exploration piece centers on Jill, Chris, and Brad and their life in Raccoon City between July and September 1998 before the infection spread, before Nemesis was deployed, before Chris left for Europe, and before the city fell.***I hope to work in cameos of other characters as the story progresses, but I don't want to make any promises. :] The story might also progress post-RE3, 'cause I have plenty of headcanons for those years as well.***





	1. 21 Days

It’s been three weeks since we left the mansion.

But… I’m still numb.

The morning we returned covered in the blood and gore of our survival, we marched straight for the police station with righteous justice keeping us on our feet. I remember the weariness I felt—I’m sure the others won’t soon forget it, but we walked. We kept walking, through the front gates, past Marvin welcoming in new recruits in the west office, past all the stares and snarled noses. We marched up the steps to the second floor, and Chris all but kicked in the door to Irons’ office.

That smug piece of trash sat behind his desk, his swollen stomach heaving with each breath. He stared at us like he didn’t expect us, like we—like we weren’t meant to return.

Maybe we weren’t. But we did.

Chris stormed toward his desk, slammed one hand against the hard oak, and leaned across the desk to get right in Irons’ face. He pointed at him, shoving his index finger so close to Irons’ face that, I know, if the man had any less scruples, he would have bitten it off.

And Chris unleashed. He told him everything: the things we saw, the things we did. He told of him of the captain’s betrayal, of our comrades’ deaths—our friends’ deaths. All of it.

And that smug grin stayed on Irons’ face the whole time. And when he finally spoke, those four words stung.

“You must be mistaken.”

His voice was thick and greasy, as oily as the departing hair left on his head.

Chris’ whole body shook. I thought for sure he would punch the Chief square in his jaw.

But he didn’t.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me, Irons. Umbrella has—”

“—contributed a lot of money to this city, and their reputation won’t be undermined by the lurid imaginations of some sleep-deprived National Guard rejects.”

Barry noticed Chris and the ticking time bomb inside his mind, and he stepped between him and the Chief. “We know what we saw.”

Brad twitched beside me, fidgeting with the zipper on his vest. He acted as if he’d seen the worst the mansion had to offer, but he didn’t know what all he missed. I try not to resent him for leaving us like he did; he came back after all. But even if I hated him for abandoning us, I wouldn’t wish the nightmares on anyone.

Rebecca stood closest to the door. Her eyes were shut, and tears streamed down her cheeks. She hadn’t stopped crying since we boarded the chopper, and she held Richard’s name patch in her fist. I spotted the R. Aiken stitched in black thread as we flew over the forest, returning to the city, while the mansion burned at our backs. 

She saved him. Tried to anyway. I saw the bandages when I found him.

I wondered if she ripped his name badge off his vest before I found him. He wasn’t wearing it in that dusty hallway; she had helped him take if off to get to his wounds. Maybe holding onto that little piece of orange fabric kept her stable.

I wouldn’t blame her for that. 

“Why don’t you five go home and bathe? Get some rest, and then we’ll have a nice chat when you all come in refreshed.”

“Or we can chat now?” Chris screamed. The veins in his neck were bulging, tugging through his skin like ropes on a ship strained too tight.

Barry set a hand on Chris’ shoulder. “We should take some time and cool off.”

Chris brushed off Barry’s hand and raised his middle finger to Irons. “Cool this, you slimy sack of shit.”

With a huff, he spun away and stormed out of the office, brushing past me as he went.

That was the last time the five of us were together.

Rebecca packed up her apartment and left town a few days later. No note, hardly a goodbye. She was just gone, her white and black stitched med-kit bag left hanging like the dying limb of a tree in the office, collecting dust.

Barry was the second to go. He came to the office and told us in person—by then it was just me and Chris. He and Chris hugged for a good five minutes straight, and then the old bear pulled me in on it. He laughed when he did too; I’m going to miss that laugh.

“I have to protect my girls,” he said, unable to look us in the eye.

“We understand,” Chris said. “We’d never ask you to put them in danger.”

Barry cut his eyes to me, and within them, I saw all the apologies he still wanted to speak after what happened in the mansion. The old fool; I didn’t hold onto any of that anger. I trusted him when I handed his gun back to him, and I’ll always trust him.

“Jill, I—”

I smiled and hugged him again. “Take care of your family.”

He slung his bag over his shoulder—full of all his gun magazines he kept at the office—and he left.

Brad was third. I don’t think he left the city just yet, but he’s definitely gone into hiding. He couldn’t stomach the stares and gawks we got from the crowds on the streets. He claimed a lady in the grocery store threw a softened tomato at him and screeched at him. But I don’t know if I believe him.

When Irons dismissed our claims, I wasn’t surprised. In the following days when the members of our team dispersed, I wasn’t surprised.

Some nights, I dream I'm standing back in Irons’ office. I watch my comrades leave the office one by one, leaving me behind, leaving me alone, until it’s just me staring at Irons. I don’t try to reach for them or call to them; I know, deep down, they all have their reasons for going.

So I let them. And when it’s just me and Irons left, he smiles.

“Sonuvabitch pulled it off,” he jeers and pours himself a shot of whiskey.

Our own captain was in Umbrella’s pocket. Why not the Chief of Police as well?

Sometimes that dream ends in a nightmare, and I’m still in Irons’ office. He sits at his desk, but there’s no whiskey, no computer, no reports. There’s a body—a teenager’s corpse with a grotesque stomach wound. Her blonde hair lays lifeless against her paling yet sweaty skin. Her white dress is smeared with blood and hangs in tatters around the wound.

And Irons: he stares at her. He touches her. He smells her.

And I wake up with a shudder, usually unable to go back to sleep. So I drink until I find the darkness again.

Three weeks since the mansion. 21 days.

I’m still numb.


	2. Hard Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jill struggles to cling to the routine of normalcy while spending her days at the station, studying the cases that led them to the mansion. But today, she receives a call that sparks her interest.

Every morning, I get up, get dressed, and walk to the station. It’s not far from my apartment, and I enjoy the walk. August is hot in the city, but fall is starting to creep in. The trees turn orange. The children are back in school, the buses running them to and from. And for the thirty minutes I’m on the sidewalk, there are few others around. And if someone does appear, they walk fast past me and won’t make eye contact.

It bothered me at first. Sometimes, it still does.

We were S.T.A.R.S. Elite. The best. And now, we’re loons.

After Irons ignored our claims, we—me and Chris at that point, and mostly by Chris’ insistence—we interviewed with a reporter from The Raccoon Tribune. Alyssa something. Tall, blonde, and more attitude than what could logically fit inside that office. I hardly said a word to her; Chris led the whole thing, so I didn’t have to.

She published Chris’ words, his statements detailing all that happened in the mountains, in that mansion. But she framed his words around lines dripping with sarcasm. It was obvious she didn’t believe us, but to mock us? 

It only got worse from there.

She ran the Q&A article three times. THREE. And the final two runs, the article was printed on the front page alongside comments and write-in opinions from readers. Most of the comments heckled us, called us names, and belittled our skills: typical stuff. But among a few, a vicious rumor began.

Everyone in the city thinks we’re nuts. But then most of them think we’re killers.

The write-in opinions said we killed our comrades to save ourselves, that we went mad, snapped, or were just ‘stressed out from the job,’ and killed our friends.

But I wonder. What do these people think could cause us to kill our fellow officers and friends just to ‘save ourselves’? Surely something drastic had to happen to us. Something… unexplainable.

Chris wanted her head for what she’d done. I convinced him a fight would only incite more to follow her lead.

Now people just don’t look at us. They don’t make eye contact. They don’t walk beside us on the sidewalk. And maybe, they throw rotten fruit at you at the supermarket.

Hordes of reporters used to gather at the gates to the station, but after the article, they retreated. There was no story left to find here. As far as the city was concerned, as far as the paper and the citizens and the Chief was concerned, we were just overworked, burnt out, tired, and deadly.

Most probably wanted us locked up, but no cop dared to turn their cuffs to us. Some didn’t want to believe the rumors were true. Others were afraid they were. Either way, everyone kept their distance.

Once I reach the station, I breeze in, wave to Bobby—the officer working the front desk—and head straight for the stairs. I don’t stop for coffee or chat with the others. I pretend not to notice their stares, and I go straight for the west hall and enter the S.T.A.R.S. office where I can be alone.

With everyone else gone, there isn’t much to do here. I spend my days reading old case files, anything from the months leading up to what Irons calls the ‘Mansion Incident.’ Prick.

I search the cases for any connection to Umbrella or Wesker or any of its founders. I look for anything we might have missed when we didn’t know what to look for. But mostly, I just study them: the photos, the growing victims’ list, the gruesome details. And I almost laugh, wondering how we didn’t know what was coming—what was waiting for us in that mansion.

“Because it’s insane,” I whisper to the silence of the office.

Zombies. Eating brains. The undead.

It’s insane.

A massive corporation with more wealth than morals topping the Fortune 500 list each year with their hands in every industry constructing a virus to form super soldiers: insane, but plausible.

Turning a city of Umbrella loyalists and politicians with pockets lined with Umbrella’s bribes and citizens who gain paychecks and support their families by working for Umbrella against that company: impossible.

There will never be a good ending here.

“J-Jill, you in there?”

The harsh buzz of the intercom snapped me out of my thoughts. I crossed the room and pushed the talk button.

“Yeah, Bobby. I’m here. What’s up?”

“You, uh, you got two calls. The first is a, uh, well… it’s a guy, I think, who is p-pretty mad…”

“A concerned citizen,” I corrected with a roll of my eyes. It meant I was about to get an earful of profanity and insults. “What about the second call?”

“Yeah. I, uh, don’t know who it is. He wouldn’t say his name, but he seemed pretty desperate to talk to you.”

“O.K. I got it. Thanks, Bobby.”

“Y-you’re welcome. And, uh, hey, Jill?”

“Yes?”

“You think Chris’ll be coming in today?”

“No.” My voice was flat. “He’s still sick.”

“Ah. O.K. Well, good luck.”

I returned to my desk and picked up the receiver, bracing myself for the first call. Might as well get it out of the way.

“Valentine. STARS.”

A heavy breath.

“STA—”

A chuckle. “Yeah, I buried my dog last week, and I’m worried he’s gonna pop up out of his grave. What should I do? You’re the expert on th—”

I pressed my finger to the base, disconnecting the call. Typical.

Line number two blinked at me with its sharp red flash.

I sighed and punched the button. “Valentine. STARS.”

“Jill?”

“B—?”

“Don’t say my name. You never know who might be listening.”

“O.K.” I was a bit wary.

“I-I didn’t want to call you at the station, but there was no answer at your apartment.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m at work. You could have waited until I got home.”

“No no no. I had—I had to tell you now. I need to show you something.”

“O.K.”

“The bar we used to meet at after work. Meet me there. Today. Tonight. 6 PM. It’ll be just before the rush so we can leave before anyone notices us.”

“What’re you showing me?”

“Something… something important. It’s about... “ A pause with static hiss and his panted breathing. “I-I’ll show you tonight. Be there.”

Click, and the line was silent.

I sat listening to the dull hum of the disconnected line for several heartbeats.

I shook my head like I was waking from some delirious dream, slammed the phone down on the base, and left the office in a rush. 

This was a spark, an inspiration of something—

The call to action I dearly missed.

My heart beat, slow but gaining anxious speed.

I wasn’t numb anymore.


	3. Partner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Checking in on Chris, Jill finds him living with an unhealthy obsession, but questioning him only ignites his anger.

I knocked on the door to Chris’ apartment. 

At midday, the hall of his building was empty and quiet, free of the home-from-work traffic that would roam these halls another four hours from now. But the stillness wasn’t comforting; maybe it never would be again. It was unsettling, a reminder of those creaking floors and dusty-walled corridors in the mansion.

“Jill? Hey.”

I shook myself free of the memories and smiled when I saw his face poke through the opening between his barely-cracked apartment door and its frame. His face seemed paler, and bags hung heavy under his eyes.

“Have you been sleeping?”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course. What, uh, what’re you doing here?”

“Checking on you. I haven’t seen you at the station—”

“I’m not going back there. I told you.” He looked me up and down like I was the enemy. “What’d you need?”

A creak drew my attention to a door down the hall where one of Chris’ neighbors—an eldery lady—had opened her door to peek out at us, to gawk at us—the crazies and the killers. When she noticed my stare, she hurried back inside.

I shook my head and looked to Chris. “Can you let me in?”

He looked nervous and checked behind himself several times like his apartment was hiding something other than discarded pizza boxes and too many empty beer bottles. But at last, he bowed his head, stepped back, and swung the door open wide.

I strolled inside, and he slammed the door shut fast behind me, like something might get out. Or worse. Maybe something unwarranted might get in.

Just inside the door, the apartment opened into the main area: a living room straight ahead, a kitchen to my right, a ratty table with two chairs as the dining room, and then to the left was a solid wall behind which was the bathroom and then his bedroom on the other side.

The entire apartment was colored in shades of brown. Dark, discolored wallpaper fading from sunlight hung from the walls. He had no curtains, and the blinds were all dropped and closed, shutting out the day. A thick haze of smoke hung in the air like a fog, and it all reached upward from the same source—an ashtray on the coffee table sitting atop a pile of folders and opened books from the library.

“Uh, Jill,” he started but never spoke anything else.

My face must have betrayed me, revealing all the worry I felt tightening my heart.

In a rush, I dashed forward and looked around the corner of the wall. Spanning the west and north walls of his apartment from floor to ceiling were papers pinned in place: newspaper clippings, medical journals, and seemingly random notes and receipts. At the center of it all were two maps: one of the Arklay Mountains and the surrounding forests, and the other of the city itself.

I set my palm against the yellowed and crinkled sheets of paper to keep my balance while my eyes drank in the sight of them. I half expected a red thread to be here, linking similarities.

I sucked in a shallow breath when I noticed the photographs over the TV. They were of us—of STARS—and every other person we knew of who was connected to that mansion. When there was no photo to put to a name, Chris had just scribbled their known alias across a blank Polaroid in stark black Sharpie.

I recognized the faces and the names from my own research into the area: George Trevor, Jessica and Lisa Trevor—names that would haunt me forever, Oswald Spencer and other big wigs tied to Umbrella. He listed the names of the contractors who worked for Spencer to build the mansion. He even had a map of it pinned beside the photos, a blueprint of the mansion and its residence building. And on the other side were the photos of us with black X’s marked across the names of those we lost.

I spun around and faced him, my jaw hanging open. “Is this why you don’t come to the station?’

He grumbled and swept a hand through his hair. “I told you. Going back there is a waste of time.”

“And this?” I asked, waving a hand at the walls. “This isn’t healthy.”

“Like you’re not spending your time doing the same?”

“Not to this level. Chris, you need to go outside, breathe fresh air—”

“Fresh air won’t help me find who’s responsible for what happened.”

“We know who’s responsible, and he’s dead.”

“Wesker?” Chris scoffed. “His body wasn’t in the mansion when it burned, and he’s just the beginning. Umbrella is to blame. Marcus, Spencer, Ashford: they started this.”

“And Umbrella was founded in the 60s. They’re old men. Rebecca said Marcus is dead. Ashford likely is too, and Spencer is probably hiding somewhere he can’t be found.”

“They’re _still_ responsible."

I frowned. "When was the last time you left the apartment?"

"What does it matter?" He stormed passed me and gestured to the walls covered in notes. "The answer is right here."

"Answer for what?"

His eyes were like stone, hard and unmovable. "Taking down Umbrella."

I pressed my fingers to my temple. "It's been three weeks—"

"And Umbrella had years. Think about it, Jill. They had Wesker in their pocket. Our captain? They've probably been slipping paychecks to that fat fuck Irons too. And those two founded STARS. We were always meant to be slaughtered."

"Wesker worked for Umbrella. He wasn't someone they were bribing to get their way. He was _one_ of them. He just fooled us all. And Irons?" I shrugged. "He'd steal from his own grandmother if he could get away with it."

"You're saying it was all a coincidence?"

"No. I'm just clarifying that the real enemy here was Wesker. Irons is just… an accomplice at best. And I won't accept the idea that we were always a target, put together just to be exterminated. We weren't rats in a lab, Chris. We were—we are _highly-trained_ soldiers."

"Who better to use? You heard Wesker. Rats is exactly what we were to him."

I shook my head. "Oh, I heard him. But to get to us, they had to draw us to the mansion. You saw the scientists in the lab? The workers on the grounds? And all those deaths we investigated before sending Bravo team out there? You're trying to convince me that Umbrella killed all those people on purpose just to get to us?"

I sighed and leaned against the wall. "Wesker could've just led us to the mansion at any time if that was what he wanted. But he didn't. If he wanted us dead, he could have made the evidence lead us to the forest sooner. But he _didn't_. We had months, Chris—_months_ between the first body and Bravo team departing. Why do that if we were the target all along? Why kill all of their own scientists and workers?"

"Umbrella doesn't give a damn who they hurt."

"Then why bother with the cover up? Why paint us as lunatics? Why pay Irons to keep him in line?"

Chris rubbed at his forehead and groaned. His lack of sleep was truly starting to show in his slowing movements.

"Why are you fighting me on this, Jill? I thought—out of everyone, I thought you would understand."

"I do understand," I fired back with a stern, even voice. "I understand that our captain betrayed us, that we lost almost all of our friends to horrors we thought were fictional, and that we are left to live in the shattered remains of our lives. And I get it, Chris. I know you, and I know how much you want to make someone pay for what happened. But this—" I gestured to the walls "—isn't how you make it happen."

"Then tell me, what the fuck am I supposed to do?"

"You move on," I said, my voice straining. "You don't let what happened take away your sanity."

"You're telling me, you walk into that station every morning with your head held high and when you sit in that office, you don't feel the loss?"

"Of course I feel it."

"And yet you think this is a waste of time? You waste your days in that station, clinging to something we'll never have again—"

"I cling to the normalcy of it. I need that, Chris. I need to wake up, have my coffee, and go to work like it's any other day so that I don't lose my mind when I go home and have to sleep with my gun beneath the pillow."

He stood taller and straightened his shoulders. “Don’t tell me you believe the lies? That what happened to us—that it was all an accident?”

“The work Umbrella was doing in the mansion got out of hand. They lost control. First, a scientist gets sick, then a guard is infected and kills his friend. But no one reports it. No one tattles for fear of losing their job, so the incidents keep happening until some of the dogs escape and start f-feeding on local joggers. Then we have to take notice, and Umbrella? They just turn a PR nightmare into a situation they can control by using us to clean up their mess.”

“Doesn’t that piss you off? That our friends died so that Umbrella could keep pulling the strings in this city? So that we look like lunatics while Umbrella still slips paychecks to half the fuckers in power here so they can keep their status?”

I swallowed hard and clenched my jaw. “Of course it does, but that is the job we’re left with now, Chris. To clean up Umbrella’s mess, and to do it so that what happened in those woods does not reach this city.”

I shook my head and distanced myself from Chris. I turned toward his door, eager to leave the smoke-filled rooms and gloomy, brown hues behind for the warmth and light of the sun outside.

“Jill.” His voice cracked as he said my name.

My legs forced me to stop as my heart weakened from his tone. 

“Umbrella is an international company. What happened here—” he sighed deeply. “This city doesn’t want our help. They hate us. But there’s other locations, other countries where what happened in the mansion is just waiting to repeat itself.”

He crossed the room to stand close at my back. I felt his heat against my side, and I felt his hesitation at wanting to touch me—to grab my shoulder and force me to face him, to accept his words and the path he was slowly deciding to choose.

But he kept his hands clenched at his sides in tight fists.

“Maybe our efforts are better spent elsewhere.”

I faced him and saw the sadness in his eyes, the inner torment of choosing to leave this city behind in favor of saving others—other places that don’t know the horror that we had seen. In terms of the truth of Umbrella, we were experts now, and that was an insane thought in and of itself.

“Regardless of what it means for me, I can’t turn my back on this city,” I said.

I turned from him again and threw open the door to his apartment. As I crossed the threshold into the hall, I heard his voice, strained and worried, echo behind me.

“Where are you going?”

“To get a drink.”

I slammed the door behind me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Don't worry, fellow Valenfield'ers. This is not the end. ;p This is how I see their relationship working, though. Chris is emotional, stubborn, and hard-headed, and once he gets his mid set on something, nothing can made him change his mind or slow down. Meanwhile, Jill is calm, logical, and clear-headed. She tried to be rational and counteract his emotions, and she is often the only one who can bring him back to reality. :] And here, he is hurt that she doesn't immediately agree with him.
> 
> Plus, I always felt like Chris blamed himself the most for what happened in the mansion. Not just that everyone died but that he, alone, didn't save them or keep them from going inside. That obsession fueled his passion to take down Umbrella because making them pay eliminated his own guilt.)


	4. Drinks with Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jill meets Brad at their local hangout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHERE DID SEPTEMBER GO!? I cannot believe I posted Chapter 3 back on 9/3, like... how? This month has been passing by _way_ too fast.
> 
> Anyhoo, enjoy!

A melody with low bass tones thrummed through the bar, making my mind feel hazy. I sat at one of the bar-height tables near the back, away from the windows and out of sight of most of the other patrons. My back was to the wall, and I had a clear view of both exits. The front door was illuminated by the lights of the city clicking on as day faded, and the back door—a dusty, iron-colored metal door that opened into the alley behind the bar—was cast in red beneath the haze of a large exit sign.

And before me on the sticky wooden table sat a half-empty pitcher of warm beer—my second, thank you. I raised my glass to my lips and downed the remaining swirl of amber liquid and foam at the bottom then set it against the table with a hard clink.

The noise couldn’t be noticed over the volume of the TV blasting from behind the bar. Most of the patrons were clustered at the bar anyway. Truckers mostly, but a couple of the customers were just locals stopping in after work to watch the big game on the staticy screen. 

The front door groaned, and a slim figure with wide shoulders, swept back hair, and a stained, mustard-yellow shirt slipped inside. His shoulders were pinched high, and he kept his head low as he streaked through the bar to reach my table.

“Y-you here already?”

I raised an eyebrow to his question and smiled. “Been here since 3.”

His shoulders dropped, and his head reeled back, repulsed. “Why?”

I shrugged. “Are you going to sit or not?”

He nodded and claimed the bar stool across from me. He set his hands on the table, but they twitched, eager and frenzied.

“So… you want a glass?”

He shook his head, but his eyes were focused on the crowd at the counter, not me.

“O.K., then what’d you want to show me?”

His eyes never left the growing crowd. 

“Brad?” I whispered his name, more a warning than a means to get his attention.

I cut my eyes to the crowd to see what he deemed so interesting. And amid the gathering stood two men: large, broad-shouldered, and probably thick-skulled. Fratenery types. Jocks who never grew out of the ‘punch you, punch me’ stage of college. 

And they were gesturing to us with deep scowls on their faces.

“Brad,” I whispered again, noticing he was still staring.

I didn’t want to deal with this now, to face another angry local who hated us.

The two men shoved away from the bar and stalked toward us. The leader held his shoulders high, his arms flexed, to prove he was the tougher of the four of us—a predator claiming his territory. The other guy—smaller in size and based on the look of concern in his eyes, probably wiser too—strolled behind his friend, most likely prepared to be the referee of a fight that didn’t need to happen.

The bigger of the two men grabbed the edge of our table with his hulking fist and leaned into us. Oddly, he faced me and not Brad. I wasn’t one for sexism, but why target me when I sat with a man—well, ol’ Chickenheart was close enough. If this beast of a man was looking for a fight, was he really prepared to start throwing punches with a female officer?

Staring at him, I felt my blood ignite into white hot flames, and I wanted him—no, I dared him to draw a fist.

He stunk of beer, and the closer he leaned into me, the more intense the odor became. He wore oil-stained coveralls half-unzipped with the arms tied around his waist like a belt. The flannel shirt beneath, a yellow and blue cross-pattern, was stained a bit as well. And an ID tag clipped to his breast pocket said his name was Tony Anchors.

“I know you,” he seethed his words on a voice with a higher alcohol-content than my pitcher-and-a-half-filled bloodstream. “You’re one of those STARS trash, aren’t cha?”

He slurred his S’s terribly.

“Yes, I am,” I declared clearly, sitting up straight to oppress his advances.

He chuckled. “Tell me, then, what the hell you doing in our bar? Aren’t you two supposed to be living in the woods to protect us from—” he sucked in a sharp gasp “—z-z-zombies!?”

Tony and his friend laughed, hard and heavy.

When he finished laughing, he met my eyes. “Why don’t you two loons get the fuck out of our bar?”

“O.K.” Brad peeped and started to rise from his stool.

I held my hand out to him, halting his retreat. “No.” I rose from my own stool. “We’re paying customers. We’re not going to leave.”

Brad slid back onto his stool and sat still and silent.

Tony towered over me, but I held my ground.

Fuck this guy and fuck every person who calls the station every day hounding me with their laughter. Fuck that reporter for twisting our words, our losses, into jokes and hysteria. Fuck Irons for… gawh, just for being Irons. Fuck his bribe-lined pockets. Fuck Wesker for doing this to us. Fuck him for killing our teammates, for destroying our careers, our futures, our sanities. And fuck this guy—again—  
for having the nerve to demand we leave the bar—_our bar_—like all the time went spent here meant nothing, like the blood and sweat and tears we shed here and in that fucking mansion were for nothing.

“What did you say?” Tony asked with a snarl.

“You're drunk. You need to ask your friend to escort you home, unless you'd like to spend a night in jail for threatening a police officer.”

“Pfft, STARS was disbanded, lady. All your teammates are dead!” He hollered, and now the whole bar was watching us. “You think you have authority here? You think you matter? You're nothing!”

I stared at him through narrowed eyes. I wanted to slap the grin off his face. I wanted to punch his nose until it cracked and bled. THIS is what we suffered through hell for?!

Tony's friend gripped his shoulder. “Come on, man. Maybe she's right. Maybe you should stop this.”

He shrugged off his friend's grip. “Only 'cause you aren't worth the energy.”

He reached past me, grabbed the pitcher of beer off my table, and threw its contents on me.

I was… blindsided, too focused on my anger. I didn't register him lifting the pitcher until I felt the warm beer slosh over my shirt, down my neck, and into my nose.

A few shocked gasps echoed from the crowd at the bar which watched us with far more interest than the football game on the TV. I even heard a soft whimper slip out of Brad.

“Don't step foot in our bar again, _cop_.”

Tony hissed his threat low and spun away from me.

Another patron caught his arm and blocked his path to the bar. “You owe her an apology for that.”

Tony snarled, a choking scoff, and shrugged. “ I gave her fair warning.”

“O.K. Then this is your warning.”

All I saw was a fist collide with Tony's face, and his drunken form dropped to the floor without a breath. And Chris stood in front of him, his face twisted with rage and his knuckles stained red.

The air in the bar was tense and hushed except for the hurried footsteps of the owner rushing toward us. 

“Enough of this,” he exclaimed. “No fighting in my bar. What have I told you, Redfield?”

He raised his hands in defense, but the smirk on his face proved he enjoyed what he did. “I didn't start this.”

“Well you sure as hell finished it!” He faced the others as Tony's friend struggled to lift him from the ground. “Mark, get Tony outta here, and you tell him he isn't allowed back if he's going to act like a drunken ass every night.”

Mark nodded furiously, probably wishing he had a different friend or had spent tonight in a different place as he heaved Tony onto his feet and shuffled toward the door.

He spun toward Chris. “And you—”

“Hey, he threw beer on her.”

“Don't mean you have to knock him out. If he can't bring assault charges against you, then the bar'll catch the blame for this. I don't need anymore citations or cops up my ass.”

“There won't be any,” Chris assured him, but the promise was hollow. I saw it in the way Jack's face dulled and heard it in Chris’ deflated voice. No one at the station would listen to us anymore, and if we tried to defend Jack in this case, they'd punish him even harder.

That's what we had become. The troublemakers.

Jack's face softened as he turned to me. He lifted the dish towel off his shoulder and offered it to me.

“It don't look it, but it's about the cleanest rag in this place.”

I nodded, accepted the towel, and began to pat down my shirt. I even wiped the filthy terry cloth towel over my cheeks and neck. It rank of stale beer and dust, and every inch of me felt sticky and damp. But a towel was a towel.

“I'm sorry about him, Jill. He shouldn't have done that.”

“Thanks, Jack.” I offered him a small smile. I knew he meant well, but his apology didn't undo what had been done—or said.

“I know you and yours have been great customers in the past, and if I'm being honest, I miss you guys crowding up my bar every night. But maybe it's time to leave those nights behind us.”

“What're you saying, Jack?” Chris asked nicely enough, but the snarl on his lips was twisting tighter. “Are you banning us?”

“With all that's happened, I think it'd be best if you guys just didn't come around anymore.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” Chris announced with a laugh.

“You three aren't the most popular people in the city, alright? And maybe I don't need the headache of a fight every night.”

I sighed, folded the towel into a neat trifold, and handed it back to him. “If that's what you want, Jack.”

Chris glanced at me, exasperated. I saw the question in his eyes before he even got the chance to speak it. Why would I take a stand and a faceful of beer for my right to be here only to back down now?

The answer was simple. Jack had always been a friend. The last thing we needed right now was another enemy.

“Let's go.” I slid between Chris and Jack and strolled toward the front door, ignoring all the gawks and stares as I went.

Outside, I waited under the blinding neon lights of _J's Bar_ for the men to join me.


	5. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brad shares news of his recent Umbrella discovery.

Light sheets of rain began to drip from the dark skies overhead, and the wind shifted to blow fierce and cold, too cold for August.

Chris lifted the collar of his jacket as he stepped out of the bar to block the incoming chill. Brad, jacketless like me, hunched low and hid his face with raised shoulders even as rain peppered his crispy, over-styled hair. I didn’t mind the rain. The front of my shirt was already soaked through with beer. If anything, the rain might lessen the odor and stickiness. I welcomed any change.

“What are you two up to?” Chris asked, his eyes dancing back and forth between me and Brad until finally settling on Chickenheart. “And when did you come out of hiding?”

“Brad had something to show me, but we didn’t quite get to that.”

“Yeah, those guys were dicks,” Chris noted with a proud smile.

I didn’t crack a smile as I faced him. “Why did you come here? After we talked, I thought—”

“You two want to get out of the rain?” he interrupted, dodging my question. Maybe he didn’t want to reignite our argument from earlier. Or maybe he just didn’t want to do it in front of Brad.

“My car’s parked around the corner,” Brad admitted in a whisper.

“Hell no,” Chris jeered. “I am not getting into another vehicle with Brad behind the wheel.”

Brad looked horrified by the joke, and I just stayed silent. Breaking the tension used to be one of Chris’ talents, but that wasn’t obvious now.

“What do you want to show us, Brad?” Chris continued, powering through the awkward silence he created.

“It’s, uh, a place.”

“So there will be driving?”

He shrugged. “If you guys want to see it in person, yes.”

Chris smiled. “Then we’re definitely getting in my truck.”

Chris spun away from the bar and marched through the rain, and Brad and I followed him in silence. We rounded the corner of the block and parked in the full lot across the street sat his truck. We climbed inside: Chris behind the wheel, Brad in the back, and me up front. We were glad to be out of the rain, and once Chris shut his door, we were secluded, trapped in the vacuum of silence in the truck’s cab with nothing but the patter of rain on the roof to be heard.

Nervous, and probably as eager to break the silence as me, Brad shifted forward, leaning up from the back seat to squeeze his shoulders between the space of the front seat. He retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and dropped it on the center console. Flipping it open, I noted he still carried his S.T.A.R.S. ID with him, and it claimed center stage over his driver’s license. 

I almost smiled at the sight of it. I was proud to know Brad didn’t hide the ID card or shred it or burn it. He kept it because it meant something; it had value; it had weight. Just like us.

He peeled open the wallet and withdrew a folded up piece of paper stashed among his few dollar bills. He returned his wallet to his jean’s pocket then unfolded the paper, laying it flat against the console to smooth out all its wrinkles.

When he moved his hands aside, I saw the picture in its entirety. It was a printout of the aerial view of a cabin surrounded on all sides by thick treelines and no visible roads in or out of the place.

“This,” Brad began, his face beaming with barely-contained joy, “is a cabin.”

“We can see that,” Chris noted.

“But not just any cabin. This isn’t just some two room shack the sexy couple hides out in before they’re slaughtered in some B-horror movie. This is a stuck-up-frat-boy-borrowing-daddy’s-cabin-for-winter-break cabin. Two floors. A completed basement. A hot tub. A kitchen stacked with exotic—”

“Your point?” Chris pushed.

Brad cleared his throat. “Sorry. This is an Umbrella cabin.”

My stomach clenched. “No. How do you know that?”

He pointed at Chris. “While you’ve been hiding away in your apartment, and you—” he gestured to me “—pour over old case files at the station, I’ve been studying this place. This fucking city isn’t just home to Umbrella. It was built for Umbrella. Every business, every building—all a part of Umbrella, from the drugstore to the fucking supermarket. They’ve rubbed their logo all over everything in this city.”

“This isn’t earth-shattering news here, Brad,” Chris noted. “And it still doesn’t explain the cabin.”

“I’ll get to that. Just think about it. The Chief labeled what happened at the mansion as an ‘incident.’ And maybe it was.”

I felt Chris’ eyes on me, likely annoyed Brad was attempting to force the same opinion as me.

“But,” Brad continued, “what if the timing was the accident, not the result. What if this city was built by Umbrella just to fall when Umbrella needed a larger subject base?”

I shook my head. “To be that cold and calculating—”

“Sounds just like the Umbrella I know,” Chris said with a scoff.

“It’s madness,” I insisted. “Accident or not, if Umbrella let what happened at the mansion repeat itself in this city, the whole world would take notice. The company wouldn’t survive such a catastrophe. Everyone would blame them.”

“No one blames them now,” Chris retorted, his eyes locked onto mine. “They blame us.”

“Only because they didn’t see what we saw. If you hadn’t been there, would you believe us on our word alone?”

Chris looked away; I was right. He knew it but didn’t like it. To be honest, I didn’t like it either. But a fact’s a fact.

I gestured to the picture and looked to Brad. “So the cabin?”

“Right. It’s on high enough ground that I think it’s supposed to be a meeting place or like a lookout. Based on its position, it’s equal distance from the mansion and from that facility Rebecca found.”

“Marcus’ Training Facility,” I corrected.

“Right, right. And Becky said the train her and Bravo Team found dead-ended there.” He flipped the piece of paper over to show a hand-drawn sketch of subway lines on its back. “So I followed the train tracks. They don’t lead to the mansion, but they do make a stop at this cabin. And remember? Becky said the Umbrella logo was all over that train.”

“There are no tracks around the cabin,” Chris said, flipping the paper over.

“They probably go underground to a sub-basement. The tracks do the same thing at the Training Facility, remember? Becky said she—”

“—walked through the sewer after the train derailed.” I glanced at Chris to gauge his reaction. His brows were furrowed and knitted tight, shadowing his eyes. “That all but marks it as Umbrella’s property.”

“And,” Brad yelled, his eagerness growing now that he had our attention. “All these property records are supposed to be public record. Unless you’re Umbrella.” He snorted a laugh. “I tried to find blueprints of this place, land deeds, property deeds, and hell, even a mention or an overview. Nothing. The only evidence that this place even exists is from this aerial photo taken twenty years ago to survey the Arklay range.”

“Wait. Twenty years?” Chris’ face relaxed.

“Well, yeah. What? Did you guys think they put this place up yesterday?”

“I was hoping for something a little more recent,” Chris said.

“From these old bats? The mansion itself was old as shit. What do you expect?” Brad sat back. “Besides, the time don’t matter. You guys said you found a lot of stuff—documents, photos—just lying around the mansion. So if this cabin was kept so hidden, even more hidden than the mansion, there’s gotta be all kinds of good shit just laying around.”

I met Brad’s eager stare. “And you want to go back to that forest and search through the place? You?”

He chuckled. “Alright. Jab noted. So I didn’t fare too well the first time out. But there shouldn’t be any of those things at this place… I don’t think.”

I glanced at Chris. “I don’t know if charging back in so soon is a good idea.”

“Come on,” Brad whined. “What else are you two doing? I mean, it’s worth a look, isn’t it?”

Chris rubbed his jaw. “They did go to a lot of trouble to hide this place, like they didn’t want it being found.”

He met my eyes, and I saw the yes already brewing in his head.

Chris was confrontational, a fighter, and he must have been getting pretty stir-crazy camping out in his apartment all this time. He needed an enemy to fight, a present and reachable objective. He needed that structure, that promise of an end goal—something that had been stripped away from him after the Mansion Incident.

He needed that spark back, just like I did. It was his stability, his livelihood, and when he had a formidable foe in his sights, he excelled. Dangerous or not, he welcomed any challenge like this.

And I wasn’t about to step aside and let him face it alone.

I looked to Brad. “Tell us how to get there.”

I didn’t need to look at Chris to see the smile spread across his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm about halfway through the next chapter. I shall try to write it quickly. Bouncing between this and "Common Ground" is a bit of a challenge. XD Oh, and replaying RE3make is a healthy distraction.
> 
> See you all soon, and THANK YOU for every kudos and comment!


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